The Color of Night
by Jordy Trent
Summary: Another one of those damn Dark Brotherhood fics. Read at your peril.
1. Chapter 1

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**~ THE COLOR OF NIGHT ~**

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_"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptised in blood and fear..." _-The Black Sacrament

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At the sound of his voice she stirs, and wakes-

"Come, Anara."

_**Capstone Cave, west of Bruma. By night.** _

"Speak."

The word lingers in the chill air - not quite a command, but more than a suggestion. And accordingly, the proposition is made.

The meeting takes place in secret and shadow, since both parties value discretion above all. The man who, for want of a better word, must be described as _the host_, has long, thin fingers which move ceaselessly as he talks, the tips tapping lightly together, twining restlessly around each other, caressing the crude makeshift desk in a sinister, slow dance.

It might have been unsettling, but his visitor is a man not easily unsettled. Having declined the offer of a seat, he stands as motionless as if carved from stone, tracking every movement with eyes that are watchful yet calm.

The girl at his side holds herself still and straight, her physical posture carefully mirroring his, but she is young and for all her efforts she cannot quite duplicate her master's absolute self-possession. Now and again her face betrays her emotions - a flicker of curiosity, a hint of uncertainty – as she listens to the man who summoned them here, to this lonely bandit's outpost. The one who is still speaking, explaining what it is he wants of his guests.

Although his height is obscured by the fact that he is seated, the speaker is unmistakeably one of the fair folk, the High Elves, tall and spare with elegantly pointed ears. Hair dark enough to emphasize the sallowness of his skin is drawn neatly back from angular features. _His_ robes are a deep russet red, the color of dawn, but the other man's are the color of night.

"…know that your services are in continual demand, but this particular assignment is a…unique…opportunity."

The man in black says nothing, but merely gazes at his host, a wordless invitation to continue. Or so the host assumes. He can see very little under the shadow of his visitor's drooping cowl. So he leans forward and speaks the name:

"Emperor Uriel Septim."

At this the girl is unable to contain a gasp; the man lifts his head abruptly, and the flickering candlelight gives a fleeting impression of strong, elegant features and straight dark brows over brown eyes designed for expression, but rarely allowed it. Now, though, they are narrowed with something like shock and incomprehension.

The one in red chuckles softly, pleased at finally eliciting a reaction.

"Yes, unexpected, is it not, my friends? I am of course aware that this will be an especially, ah, _challenging_ task given the protection that surrounds our noble sovereign, but I feel certain that your organisation is capable of carrying it out."

Silence. Contemplation.

"And there is more," he says, leaning forward. "His sons must die as well. All three of them - the line must be utterly destroyed. The payment will, of course, be proportional to-"

"No."

The word is startling in its finality. Caught out of mid-sentence, the one in red freezes, his fingers ominously halting their dance in mid-air. "...I beg your pardon?"

"No," says the other again, simply.

The host leans back in his chair. His fingers curl around themselves and become still, clenching, crushing.

"Your reluctance puzzles me, Speaker. I thought that you and your young apprentice would be only too eager to offer up a quartet of royal souls to this Sithis of yours."

When the assassin makes no response, he presses; "Have I misread history? Was it not your order who slaughtered Savirien-Chorak and his kin all in one night, ending Akavir's rule-"

"-and ushering in this same Septim dynasty, under which we have grown and prospered. Tell me - why should we wish to bring it an end now?"

The one in red frowns deeply. "My resources are considerable. The compensation would be more than generous, I assure-"

"There are not enough septims in Cyrodiil to persuade me to accept this contract."

As their host's features tauten with anger, the girl's gaze goes from him to her master and back again, unsure of what to think. This rare joint venture is unfolding very differently from her expectations.

She answers to no-one but her Speaker, roaming Cyrodiil at his command, executing the contracts he would entrust to no-one else. Her orders come in written form: a to-the-point letter outlining each assignment, along with the brief words of praise that were the nearest thing to intimacy in this solitary life of hers. And she carries out each task faithfully before going on to the next, always alone. But twelve hours earlier, she had lain down, tired out from her latest kill - a heavily-armored Legionnaire who had fought her till his last drop of blood - and when she awoke, it was to find him standing at her bedside in a reprisal of their very first meeting; that mysterious, beloved figure who had dominated her life for so long.

"I do not take kindly to having my time wasted-" The man in red is on his feet, striding over to them, standing far closer than politeness allowed. The man in black doesn't move an inch, showing no sign of fear even though the disparity in height means he has to tilt his head back to look the other in the eye.

"Anara." Without shifting his gaze, he addresses his companion, "Wait for me outside-" He does not need to speak the second half of that command, _and guard the entrance,_ aloud; he knows that she will understand him perfectly. "This will not take long," he adds, and she, with a hard look back at the Elf, turns to leave.

They stare at each other as the door creaks shut behind her.

"Do not threaten me, Raven Camoran. That _would _be foolish- Oh yes," adds the one in black softly as the Altmer stiffens, for he has given neither his name nor his affiliation- "our Mother sees all."

He does not raise his voice in the slightest, but there are shades in it dark enough to give even one of Lord Dagon's pause.

"He must _die_!" Camoran's own voice is unsteady with passion. "Him and his miserable heirs - this contract must be fulfilled!"

The assassin shrugs smoothly. "That is your business."

"It will soon be everyone's business," whispers Camoran. "If you will not help us, we will find another way."

The assassin stares speculatively at him. "Yes…" he says. "I expect you will."

Camoran shakes his head slowly, as if in disappointment. "Perhaps you anticipate retaliation from the authorities? Strangely fearful for a brotherhood which has been tolerated in practice for centuries…"

The assassin speaks with exaggerated patience: "We are tolerated, Raven Camoran, because so many of those in power have need of our services. That tolerance would end the instant it was realised that we were responsible for the Emperor's death. We would be hunted from Solstheim to South Point, and that is reason enough."

"Then your refusal stands?"

"Yes."

Camoran nods slowly and sits back down, folding his hands. Now that he's certain his request has been denied, there is only one possible response.

"Kill him," he says flatly.

The assassin has been expecting as much, and his blade is free of its sheath before the Altmer has finished speaking. He backs up one, two, calculated steps, giving himself room for manoeuvre.

They come at him from the shadows in a swift, deadly rush. The first has barely got to within striking distance when a lightning-fast clash and twist of metal sends his sword spinning away to stick quivering in the table at which his leader sits. Camoran's sharp intake of breath is lost in the subsequent whistle of steel and the moist sound of tearing flesh.

The body slams against the far wall, throat yawning red. There's just time for a wheezing gurgle, the air bubbling from all the wrong places, before the light in his eyes goes out.

The second attacker fares little better. She manages, at least, to parry the first slash, then the second, and retaliate with a lethal two-handed blow of her own. But even as her trusty mace comes down, her target is gone in a dark blur, and the spikes cleave air instead of flesh. The mace is heavy, and the downstroke pulls her off-balance.

She is not given a chance to recover. Never let an opponent get behind you, her old blademaster was forever telling her, and now she knows why. A swift, precise thrust of the assassin's blade, so quick that she barely feels the impact, but the result is unmistakeable: a sudden warmth spreading out from her spine, accompanied by the most curious weakening feeling, as though a sluice gate had been opened through which strength and sensation drain from body and limbs. All at once the mace is too heavy to hold, her legs won't obey her, and as she pitches face down into the dirt, she just has time to be thankful that she won't feel the sword as it severs her head from her shoulders.

As the assassin turns purposefully towards him, blade slick with his comrades' blood, the third cultist, new to the order, finds that promises of Paradise seem suddenly pale beside the more immediate prospect of pain and death. Faith and nerve failing him, he bolts for the door. This proves a mistake. He bursts from the cave only to find himself facing a literal nightmare, all made of lashing hooves and hellish crimson eyes.

Three things happen simultaneously: the girl, a little way off, turning with one hand going for her weapon and death in her face; the demon-horse rearing up over him; his scrabbling fingers hitting the trigger of his crossbow, more by luck than skill. But the shot goes wide and there's no time to reload, and as the creature's shape blacks out the stars above him, instinct takes over and he drops the bow and throws his hands across his face. It won't do him any good.

Inside, the black-robed man glances towards the exit, then steps back to his original position before Camoran, who has not moved the whole time. His face is somewhat paler than before.

"_Amateurs_," is the assassin's verdict, delivered with silken contempt. "No wonder you needed our help."

Camoran's lips curl back from his teeth. A fiery glow begins to form in his palm.

The assassin, for his part, is poised and supremely confident, with one arm drawn back and the silver shortsword ready in his hand. Their eyes lock in utter silence, and Camoran registers the brief, cold smile that touches the other's mouth - derision, or is it a challenge?

Based on what he's just witnessed, Camoran weighs his chances of getting off the spell _before_ the assassin's blade pins him to the wall by his gullet, and doesn't like them. He does not fear death, which for him is merely the gateway to the next plane. But his father needs him on this plane for a while longer, and he does fear his father.

Slowly, he lowers his hand.

The assassin inclines his head in a way which says _I thought not_, and resheathes his sword. With a brief gesture that was almost a salute, he turns to leave.

"I bid you farewell. Do not attempt to contact the Brotherhood again on this matter."

He steps over the body lying motionless on the threshhold with the skull cloven almost in two. A low whicker comes from the lithe black mare waiting a few paces away with her forehooves glistening red. But there's distress as well as welcome in the sound. She drops her head to nose anxiously at the second body, the one that's still moving.

Anara lies convulsing on the ground, blood welling up around the bolt that protrudes from the centre of her chest.

He pushes his hood back and drops instantly to one knee at her side, half-lifting her with one hand at her back and the other splayed around the iron shaft, sending pulses of healing blue into the wound. The arrow has missed her heart, and by itself it might not have proved fatal...but he knows the effects of poison when he sees them, and it's racing through her system faster than his restorative spell can counter it. Her eyes are filmy, her mouth slackening-

"Silencer!" he says forcefully, gripping her shoulder, hoping that his tone and touch will anchor her.

"Speaker," she gasps imploringly. And then, for the first and final time: "Lucien…"

"…Anara," he says, very quietly.

She does not answer.

He goes utterly still, watching the final thread of blood ooze from her parted lips. At her side, her favourite dagger, half out of its sheath, glints greenly in Secunda's dim light. She had not even had time to draw it.

The assassin pulls his hood abruptly about his face. He rises to his feet, still holding her motionless form, and places it across the horse's shoulders before mounting.

"I promise you," says Camoran lowly, from the doorway behind him. "We will not forget this."

The assassin turns slowly in his saddle. Camoran can't see his features in the darkness beneath his hood, but the sound of the man's voice sends unaccustomed chills down his spine.

"And _neither will we_," says Lucien.

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**Thanks to dreamysherry for some helpful pre-publishing feedback!**

**OK, I promised myself I wouldn't start posting another story this soon, but it begged to be released. I know there's another fic with the same title out there somewhere, but I've had this one in mind for a long time now. Honest. In fact, there are so many DB fics still being written that I occasionally worry there'll be too much overlap and mine will become redundant, but as long as the stories are sufficiently different in execution (no assassin pun intended) I don't think it matters if they explore similar themes. **

**So..guild war, anyone? **

**~Jordy**


	2. Chapter 2

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**Chapter 1**

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It's an impressive place, this city - proud and prosperous within its ancient walls, the hallmark of an Empire that is still powerful if no longer at its height. Life here continues in much the same vein as it has throughout the Third Era, the people busy at work and play, gossiping, trading, eating, thieving, laboring and flirting. The bustling markets hum with voices and the clink of coins changing hands, the clergy tend to the sick and injured whilst the healthy gather to converse beneath statues of past heroes, and the guards patrol their regular routes with unswerving dedication. Every few minutes the distant cheers from the Arena swell to a crescendo above the closer, gentler sounds of whispering leaves and the soft lapping of water against stone.

Yes, quite impressive. Even if to Lucien's mind Kvatch, along with every other city he could name, looks more beautiful by night.

Dressed plainly, since the dark hooded robes of a Brotherhood Speaker are unsuited to public places in broad daylight, he moves through the wide streets, blending easily with the inhabitants. As he passes the great Chapel of Akatosh the bell begins to toll, its deep tenor summoning the faithful to worship. Lucien slows to allow a man dressed in the simple vestment of the priesthood to pass in front of him, and the man turns his head with a smile of acknowledgement, giving Lucien a brief impression of tranquil blue eyes and a demeanour to match before he hurries up the chapel steps and is gone. Fool, Lucien thinks, even as he dips his head in return; why would anyone want to worship that insipid nine-fold throng when Sithis calls, irresistible in his dark splendour?

Lucien himself answered that call when he was very young. The Brotherhood has been his life and his family, and even under the current circumstances, it is with joy that he goes to meet them now.

"Lucien!" Arquen, tall and elegant, welcomes him to her Sanctuary with hands outstretched and a warm smile for one of her favourite brothers.

"Dear sister," he answers sincerely, stopping before her with an answering smile. She has been on the Brotherhood's ruling council for longer than he has, but at less than a century old, she's still young for one of her kind. Sometimes prone to hasty action where careful consideration is called for, she is, nevertheless, a highly talented mage. But then Lucien is no mean spellcaster himself, thanks in large part to the magicka-rich blood and the patient tuition of a Breton grandsire.

As yet there are only the two of them here. As always, discretion is paramount and in accordance with the rules of the Black Hand, the Sanctuary has been cleared for the meeting, all its residents sent out without explanation but with strict instructions not to return before five hours have passed. Their order must remain hidden to survive, but this insistence on secrecy even within the Brotherhood - Lucien frowns a little as he thinks of it. Oh, he knows the oft-quoted justifications - a captured assassin, even under torture, cannot betray superiors whose faces and names are unknown to him - but surely it weakens them in other, equally important ways. Any family where half the members would not recognise the other half if they passed them in the street has to be the poorer for it.

As he pulls on his usual robes, the scraping of claws on stone announces J'Ghasta's arrival. The Khajiit Speaker never carries a blade or a bow. With such formidable natural weapons at his disposal, he doesn't need to.

After a few more minutes, the Listener makes his entrance. All three of them bow before him, and he acknowledges them with a nod. He shares his diminutive stature with the rest of his race, but there's a certain hardness to his face, a notable absence of the playful spirit common to the forest folk. Every Wood Elf Lucien has ever encountered seemed lit by an inner merriment, but there is nothing merry about Ungolim. And with his arrival, the Black Hand is complete save for that one of its fingers who is, quite uncharacteristically, absent.

"Since Speaker Uvani seems incapable of joining us on time, we'll start without him," says Ungolim flatly, so they gather around a broad, plain table in the Sanctuary Master's quarters. The room is comfortable, if unadorned. Arquen's own home is a grander affair in Kvatch's southern quarter, where she is known to her neighbors as a mage scholar attached to the Arcane University.

As they bow their heads for the opening devotions, the sound of shouts and clashing swords comes muffled through the ceiling, followed by roared approval. The Kvatch Sanctuary is partially beneath the Arena. Two factions, both dedicated to the spilling of blood, one above the other. But one set plies their trade in the public eye while the other works in secret and shadow, and while the good citizens of the Empire will turn out to cheer for the killers above, they revile the ones below. Lucien casts a brief, baleful glance at the ceiling; the hypocrisy disgusts him.

"So then, straight to the matter at hand," says Ungolim briskly. "I take it that none of us has made any further progress on tracking down this Dagon cult?"

The resounding silence from around the table is his answer. No sooner had Anara's funeral pyre burned to ashes on Hero Hill than Lucien and the rest of the Black Hand, including the Listener himself, had gone back to Capstone Cave, united in wrathful indignation and intent on bloody revenge. But Camoran and his followers had gone without trace, leaving nothing to show that the cave had ever been inhabited.

It should have been a routine mission, thinks Lucien: a chance to introduce his protégé to the duties that would one day be hers. Instead they had been met with treachery, and he had brought home a dead Silencer. And at the memory of that long journey back to Fort Farragut, Shadowmere moving at a subdued walk while he cradled Anara's cooling body against himself and her blood soaked into his robes, Lucien's eyes grow cold.

He becomes aware that Ungolim is looking at him expectantly. "No, Listener. Nothing at all."

Ungolim nods and leans back in his chair, pressing his fingertips together. "Then perhaps," he says, "perhaps it is time to draw the matter to a close."

Lucien looks up sharply.

"It has been a year, Lachance," says the Elf, patiently enough. "A year during which we've followed every lead, made every investigation possible, to no avail. We should return to concentrating on our own affairs. And you should look to finding yourself a new Silencer. Anara was an exceptional assassin, but surely she can be replaced."

_Replaced...?_ Lucien decides to ignore that part for now. "With respect, Listener," he says coolly, "if the murder of a Black Hand member is not 'our own affair', then what-"

"We all grieved with you over the loss of your Silencer, Lucien," says the Khajiit in his exotic growl. "But there seems little more we can do to avenge her."

Lucien frowns. "And the threat that Camoran's order poses to the Empire?"

At this Ungolim looks impatient, Arquen simply puzzled. J'Ghasta's feline features are harder to read, but the slight backwards twitch of the thickly-furred ears suggests that Lucien's point is lost on him, too. And not for the first time, Lucien experiences a sense of annoyance mingled with unease. Assassins they may be, but they are also citizens of the Empire of Tamriel whether they like it or not - and if that Empire falls, they fall along with it. But it seems that none of his family is capable of looking past their own doorsteps. Insularity, the Brotherhood's ancient strength - but in times likes these, Lucien fears, its greatest weakness.

"Empty bravado, most likely," says Ungolim dismissively.

"Besides, these cults are a drake a dozen," adds Arquen persuasively from Lucien's left. "The Daedric Princes have always had their worshippers, and however distasteful their heresies, they simply do not have the numbers to represent any real danger. We will probably never hear of these...Dagonites again."

It all sounds reasonable enough. But Lucien alone of his brethren has looked into Raven Camoran's eyes, and there was no room for reason there.

"I am convinced that they have the will to do it," he says aloud. "I believe they may also find a way."

Polite disbelief radiates from the other three, and Arquen and Ungolim glance at one another, plainly thinking that the loss of his Silencer has skewed his judgement.

"Even if you were right about that, Lachance, the fact remains that our best efforts have failed to uncover them. There are no leads we have not followed, no likely places we have not searched."

That much is true; Lucien's Family is nothing if not resourceful. But even the Arcane University's foremost researchers, digging deep into their archives at Arquen's request, could not provide any information of practical help. With the fourth volume of the elder Camoran's eloquently insane discourse untraceable, all that was left to them was an incomplete riddle, and if Green Emperor Way held some secret four centuries ago when the commentaries were first written, there is nothing there now.

J'Ghasta shakes his head, fangs half-bared in exasperation. "They cannot just have vanished off the face of Nirn," he growls, frustrated.

"But Mehrunes Dagon does not live on Nirn, J'Ghasta," says Lucien, quietly.

A few seconds pass, during which the other assassins exchange looks of realisation and dismay. Arquen closes her eyes and rubs at her forehead with long, slender fingers.

"Then what _would_ you have us do, Lucien," Ungolim asks wearily, spreading his hands. "We cannot chase these cultists forever across dimensions."

Lucien privately thinks that given half a chance he could do just that, but there's no use saying such things to Ungolim. It's been too long since he had a Silencer of his own.

"We have given enough time to this," Ungolim continues. "More than enough-" he shoots Lucien a quelling glare, before Lucien can suggest otherwise "- and it is time we turned our attention to other matters. Such as the unusually high number of casualties we've sustained in the last quarter-year."

Seeing that he has his Speakers' full attention, the Bosmer goes on. "Since Second Seed, we have lost no less than _eight_ family members, all killed or gone missing while on contract."

Even Lucien is distracted by this news. Just one of those lost had been from his own Sanctuary, a Murderer who had been slain shortly after killing his mark near Chorrol. At the time he had thought little enough of it, the inevitable sense of sorrow going hand-in-hand with the pragmatic acceptance that theirs was a dangerous business - and the boy had been young and inexperienced. But, coupled with the corresponding losses from other Sanctuaries, all within such a short period…it cannot be coincidence. Looking around him, he sees his own dark anger and suspicion reflected on the faces of his colleagues.

"This could point to a fresh offensive from _Phillida_ and his minions," ventures Arquen, her voice roughening as she speaks the hated name.

"My thoughts exactly, Arquen," replies Ungolim. "And what I propose is-"

The Black Hand never gets to hear Ungolim's plan, since he's interrupted at that point by the sound of their missing member's rapidly approaching footsteps. The violence with which the heavy oak door is flung open suggests that the newcomer is in even more of a poor temper than usual.

"You're late, Uvani," says Ungolim coldly, looking up. "Is it so difficult to-"

"Listener!" Uvani cuts across Ungolim's words, something neither he nor any of the others has done before. Ignoring the shocked looks directed at him from around the table, he makes no move to sit down but remains standing where he is, hands balled into fists. "My Silencer is _dead_!" he hisses, almost foaming at the mouth.

"Blanchard, dead?" says Arquen, stunned, rising to reach out a hand to him. "Brother, I-"

Uvani ignores her. "And that's not all," he continues, voice rising to a harsh shout. "One of our _own_ did this!"

"_What_?" says Lucien, turning. "Alval, are you su-"

"_I'm sure_," snarls the Dunmer, his eyes fearsome. "I saw the killer with my own eyes!"

Arquen sits back down with considerably less than her usual grace.

"Well," says Ungolim eventually, into the awful hush. "It seems we have even more pressing problems to deal with than we thought. I think, Lachance, that even you will agree that catching this..._traitor_...must now be our priority?"

Finding nothing to say, Lucien lowers his eyes.

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**Next chapter almost ready. I'm just having a little trouble knowing where to split the chapters. Anyway, in case this seems like an about-face from the brewing guild war in the prologue: it isn't. It's probably obvious from this chapter what's going to kick it all off again, anyhow. **


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